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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28061721">Untitled Christmas Goose Game</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl'>meansgirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Meet the Family, Meet-Cute, Mistletoe, Mummy Holmes Doesn't Buy It, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, god so much flirting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:21:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,920</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28061721</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg should have known better than to say the phrase ‘I’ll owe you one,’ to Sherlock Holmes. This was his own fault, really. After four years, he really ought to have learned by now. But Greg had been tired and desperate and Sherlock had been acting like a stroppy child. The words had slipped out and then Greg had immediately forgotten them. </p><p>- </p><p>In which Greg agrees to pose as Sherlock's boyfriend at Christmas, finally meets the invisible Mycroft Holmes, catches feelings, and has a very happy holiday indeed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>397</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Untitled Christmas Goose Game</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title courtesy of my dearest darling hoomhum, who suggested it and made me laugh and solved the problem of what the hell to call this story. There is indeed a (cooked) goose in this fic, but I have decided that if anything, Sherlock is the goose of the story, creating havoc and being very unhelpful, but accomplishing our goals nonetheless.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>1.</h1><p> </p><p>Greg should have known better than to say the phrase ‘I’ll owe you one,’ to Sherlock Holmes. This was his own fault, really. After four years, he really ought to have learned by now. But Greg had been tired and desperate and Sherlock had been acting like a stroppy child. The words had slipped out and then Greg had immediately forgotten them. </p><p>That was September. The case didn’t wrap for another month, and Greg knew he would find himself in court for endless hours come the New Year. </p><p>In the midst of the long nights and missed weekends of the case, late in the summer, Greg had discovered the affair and moved into his mate Stan’s extra bedroom for a while. </p><p>Now, it was December. Late December, as a matter of fact, just two days before Christmas. And Greg was driving Sherlock Holmes, who was out cold, to Sussex for the holiday celebrations at his parents’ house. Sherlock’s parents, not Greg’s - who were both dead. And Greg was accompanying the daft idiot under the pretense that they were <em> dating.  </em></p><p>Sherlock had called in the favor a week previous. Greg had denied that he’d ever promised a favor, then tried insisting that this favor could not be done. </p><p>“You requested the time off months ago, Lestrade,” Sherlock had drawled. “And now the plans are off due to your erstwhile wife’s slatternly escapades. You have nothing on for the holidays. I am being forced to attend my parents’ home for the same span of days for which you have been granted leave. I need them to think me stable and healthy, mostly so that by brother will stay off my back. He is <em> egregiously </em> stifling when our mother calls too often. A boyfriend - one who is a <em> policeman - </em>is just the ticket. You owe me, and I have come to collect.”</p><p>Greg had thrown Sherlock out of his office and then stared at the screen of his computer for a while, imagining being on his own in Stan’s smelly basement flat while Stan himself visited his own family in Cardiff. </p><p>The fact that Greg associated with Sherlock Holmes at all was proof that Greg had lost his mind long ago. The fact that he was off to spend Christmas with the haughty prick was proof that Greg had now become truly pathetic.</p><p>They were maybe twenty minutes out from their destination according to the directions on Greg’s mobile. </p><p>“Sherlock,” Greg said, hoping he wouldn’t have to shake him awake. Sherlock seemed to barely ever sleep, but when he slept he <em> slept, </em> and could be a complete bear if he didn’t want to open his eyes yet. <em> “Sherlock.” </em></p><p>A sharp inhale and an aborted flailing of limbs signaled Sherlock’s startled rise from the dead. “What is it?” </p><p>Greg rolled his eyes at the snotty-snippy tone of voice. “We’re nearly there, and I think it might be nice to know what I’m walking into, here. Is there a Great Aunt Sally I need to be wary of? Any bigoted old grandparents who’ll call me something offensive for being there with you? Are there weird family traditions I need to know about so I don’t look like a complete dickhead?”</p><p>Sherlock was silent for a long moment, long enough that Greg glanced over to make sure he hadn’t gone back to sleep. He was awake, and considering Greg with a raised eyebrow - smug as always. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>Sherlock turned his face to look out the passenger side window, smirking. “Nothing.”</p><p>
  <em> “What?” </em>
</p><p>“You’ve rather committed to this, Lestrade. Why would you care if my family likes you at all?”</p><p>“Why would I rather not spend Christmas single, exhausted, faking my undying love for you, <em> and </em>hated by a bunch of strangers?”</p><p>Sherlock sighed. “Lestrade, it’s only my parents and possibly my horrid older brother, if he hasn’t wriggled his way out of it. Mummy and Daddy are rather committed to the roles of flaky grandmother - nevermind they have and will have no grandchildren - and doddering old man. They will fawn all over you and then promptly forget all about you when you leave. Mycroft is Mycroft. You’ve spoken to him, I believe.”</p><p>Greg flicked a glance over to Sherlock and his sulky shoulders, his slump up against the passenger door. “Yeah, on the phone a few times. About <em> you. </em> Is he… I dunno. Nice? Will he threaten to kill me if I hurt you? He more or less implied he would pay me to keep you off the smack once. Is he some rich arsehole with a trophy wife? What’s the deal?”</p><p>With a snort, Sherlock flung himself about a bit, making a show of sinking further into his seat. “Mycroft? Nice? No. Threaten you? Unlikely. Trophy wife? Hilarious, but no. He’s a priggish snob and dull as dishwater. Ignore Mycroft.”</p><p>Greg sighed, feeling the heaviness of it in his gut. He took a hand off the steering wheel to rub it over his face. This was a mistake. He’d throttle Sherlock before it was over. </p><p>“You know Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled in the voice he clearly thought was his most dramatic. “You’re only forty. The tired old man thing that you do - that weary huff and puff act, the stubble, the exaggerated exasperation? It’s not attractive. Your soon-to-be ex-wife didn’t find it so, and neither, it happens, do I. As your boyfriend I demand that you perk up. Otherwise the next three days are going to be sad, indeed.”</p><p>Greg blinked out the windscreen for a moment, processing that. </p><p>
  <em> What a little shit.  </em>
</p><p>He reached over and gave Sherlock a half-hearted whack about the head. “Shut up, you.”</p><p>“I will tell you that <em> no one </em> will approve if you’re beating me.”</p><p>“Go back to sleep, you tosser,” Greg grunted. “I hate you.”</p><p>“Oh, darling,” Sherlock sighed, “you don’t mean that.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Greg was surprised first by the house. He’d always pictured Sherlock Holmes as the product of some cold manor house, raised by nannies or perhaps wolves, with distant parents who probably had titles and pedigrees going back centuries. But this house was, while large, old in a quaint way, a bit tumble-down at the edges, with low ceilings inside and lots of candles. It was dark out - a bit late, really - when they arrived, so for the most part Greg only got the impression of a brick exterior and a dormant garden. But he was sure it all looked very precious in the daylight, probably especially in spring. It was the complete opposite of the sort of place he’d assumed Sherlock was brought up. </p><p>Sherlock brought him in through the back, through a mudroom off the kitchen, which itself was messy and already smelled intensely Christmas-y, like cloves and oranges.</p><p>The second surprise were the parents, who were not wolves, or - Greg was pretty sure - particularly aristocratic. They were… aggressively normal. White-haired, wearing cozy jumpers and getting up from squashy armchairs in the lounge as Sherlock, Greg, and their luggage spilled through the door from the kitchen. </p><p>Sherlock introduced them by saying. “Mummy, Daddy, this is Greg Lestrade. My boyfriend. Greg, my parents. I’m taking the bags up.” And then he disappeared. </p><p>Sherlock’s mum was the talker, that much was clear. Greg was immediately relieved of his coat, which was tossed into ‘Daddy’s’ arms. Sherlock’s mother even called him that. Maybe they <em> were </em>sort of posh after all - that sort of thing felt a bit eccentrically rich to him. While Sherlock’s dad wandered off to hang up Greg’s coat, Greg found himself gently but firmly placed in one of the armchairs by the fire. </p><p>“Well, this is a surprise!” She patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s get a drink in you, shall we? Sherlock, such a naughty boy, he never once mentioned a boyfriend, let alone bringing one for Christmas! But of course that’s alright, you’re <em> more </em> than welcome, Greg, <em> more </em> than welcome. Whiskey?”</p><p>Greg blinked, wondering where the tartan lap blanket over his legs had come from. “Oh,” he said. “Yes, sure, that would be nice. Thanks.” </p><p>In no time at all he’d been handed a tumbler and a small plate of biscuits, and Sherlock’s mum was settled in the other armchair across from Greg’s. </p><p>“Well!” She folded her hands in her lap. “What is it you do, Greg?”</p><p>And, well. Greg was suddenly more physically comfortable than he’d been in months. It was so warm in this old room, plaster and timbers and wood-burning stove making it feel a bit like he’d been set down in a lovely old American novel about a cabin or something. He could feel his bones melting into the chair. He was suddenly more than happy to talk to Sherlock Holmes’ mother about whatever it was she wanted to talk to him about, so long as he could keep sitting here. </p><p>It turned out that Sherlock had been right, and his parents - his dad joined the mum in her friendly interrogation after a few minutes - seemed thrilled to find out that Greg was a DI. After what felt like hours of small talk, but was probably not very long at all, the real nitty gritty started to come out.</p><p>“I hope you understand,” said Sherlock’s mum - <em> Call me Vi, </em> she’d said, but Greg couldn’t have brought himself to do it at the moment, still reeling that this was Sherlock’s <em> mother. </em>“Sherlock and the… the drugs, you know—”</p><p>“Oh.” Greg shook his head. “No, no, please—  I know about that. I knew him, you know, when things weren’t going so well. I’m just so happy he’s been well for the last, what is it now? Half a year?”</p><p>“More, I think,” she said, eyes a bit distant. “Mycroft… Sherlock’s brother, have you met him?”</p><p>Greg shook his head. </p><p>“Well, if all goes well he should show his face here tomorrow.” She rolled her eyes a bit before catching herself. “Well, Mycroft has been indispensable in helping his brother to get well. We travel often, you see, and living so far from London—”</p><p>“He won’t move closer, you know,” said Sherlock’s dad - Siger - with a shrug. “But then, he never liked living in the country. Not since he was a boy.”</p><p>“But he’s so sensitive,” sighed Violet. “It’s too much for him in London, I suspect, and not enough for him out here. Impossible to please, our youngest.”</p><p>Greg wondered where the hell Sherlock <em> was. </em> He wasn’t sure how he was meant to handle any of this. He’d never dated anyone whose parents were this… <em> honest </em>right out of the gate. He sipped his whiskey for lack of anything else to do. He scrambled for something to say. </p><p>“Well,” he ventured. “He really has been doing well. Seriously, I… I promise I keep an eye on things. I just want him to be happy. Healthy, you know?” </p><p>And that was true. After four years, Greg had a better idea of the whole picture of Sherlock. He was a complete dick, that was true. And he’d been the victim of a horribly severe cocaine and heroin addiction for three quarters of their acquaintance. But he was undeniably brilliant, and there were moments when he seemed to care very passionately about those whom he felt deserved it. He had a very intricate set of morals, an unconventional way of assessing worth in other people. He thought everyone was an idiot, but he loathed injustice. Racists, bigots, people who took advantage of the weak - children or the elderly. Sherlock delighted in tearing them apart in the process of his deductions. He was always the most satisfied when he could help pin them down for the Met. He wasn’t a bad person, even if he did have the odd fixation on a straw garotter or two. Greg knew that now. And he wanted Sherlock to keep working, to keep solving. Not just because it helped Greg’s numbers (he felt guilty to admit it, but it wasn’t a small factor by any means) but because it seemed to bring him to life. Greg thought Sherlock might eventually settle into something not just great, but <em> good, </em>and he’d like to see it. </p><p>Things had gone a bit quiet, and Greg noticed then that Sherlock had come to lurk in the doorway. </p><p>“Le—  Greg,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll want to get cleaned up, perhaps get some sleep?” He glanced at his parents. “We ate before we left London.”</p><p>That was marginally true; Greg had grabbed a fast food supper on his way to retrieve Sherlock from his latest grotty flat, and had worked through a packet of crisps on the drive. Whether Sherlock had eaten in <em> days, </em> let alone just before leaving London, was a mystery. Greg would bet money that he hadn’t done any such thing. He’d normally at least try to bully Sherlock into eating - someone had to do it, and even if Lestrade only personally witnessed him eat maybe once a fortnight, at least he knew the lanky bastard was getting <em> some </em> form of calories <em> sometimes. </em>But he didn’t want to appear the nagging boyfriend in front of the Holmes parents, so he simply plastered on a mild smile and allowed himself to be urged up and out of the chair. </p><p>Siger Holmes caught his arm as he passed, and waited for Sherlock’s tread to hit the stairs again before he spoke. “Are you… significantly older than Sherlock?”</p><p>Greg laughed. “A few years. I went gray early.”</p><p>“Ah.” He gave a rueful smile. “I did as well, actually. I was this white by the time I turned sixty, if you can believe.”</p><p>“You don’t look a day over that,” Greg said, remembering how to smile in a charming way, how to attempt a little sparkle for the meet-the-parents routine. </p><p>Siger slapped him on the shoulder and let him pass. When Greg met Sherlock, who had paused halfway up the stairs, it was to the usual glower. </p><p>“They don’t know how bad it was,” he said quietly. “They think it only started last year. Please. Don’t tell them.”</p><p>Greg took a moment to process that. “How do they—”</p><p>“My brother has done me the only real favor I ever asked of him, and has kept it a secret. They discovered that I was in rehab after the overdose; an idiot coordinator there called here instead of Mycroft’s office.” Sherlock turned and led the way upstairs. </p><p>“Your brother sounds like a good bloke.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted. “If he shows, you’ll see how wrong you are.”</p><p>“He helped you, didn’t he? I know he pays your bills.”</p><p>“Yes, with <em> my </em> money, from <em> my </em> trust fund, which <em> I </em>have not been allowed to control myself.” Sherlock opened a door down a long, narrow hall, giving it a shove with his hip. “The door sticks. Don’t panic if you can’t get it open; simply lift up and shove, or pull, depending on which side you’re on.”</p><p>“I think we all know why it’s best you haven’t had access to that money,” Greg muttered, following Sherlock into—  into a near-perfectly preserved teenage boy’s room, if that teenage boy stood on the precipice of becoming a serial killer. “Oh, Christ.”</p><p>Sherlock smiled beatifically. “Your suitcase is at the end of the bed. Goodnight.”</p><p>“Sherlock!” Greg moved quickly to block his exit from the room. “This is <em> your </em> room?”</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>“It’s full of dead animals.”</p><p>Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a baby, Lestrade, it’s just a bit of taxidermy.”</p><p>“Sherlock—”</p><p>“And with the lights off you won’t even see them.” He moved to leave again. “I will see you tomorrow, I suppose.”</p><p>“What—  where are you sleeping, if I’m sleeping here?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged. “There’s nowhere else. Mycroft’s room is next door. My parents on the other end of the hall. Toilet across the hall when you need it.” </p><p>“And you’re going to what, kip in the garden shed?”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped. “You know what my schedule is like. At least Mummy finally got broadband last year. I can do <em> some </em> work from here.”</p><p>“Don’t tell me you finally got a client off that website of yours.”</p><p>“Not your business.” Sherlock waved his arms at the door. “May I leave?”</p><p>“What, not going to kiss me goodnight?” Greg moved aside, unable to resist the little jab. </p><p>“You wish,” Sherlock muttered, and stamped past. </p><p>“Goodnight, sugarplum,” Greg simpered, and shut the door, praying as he did that he wouldn’t be stuck in here with all this taxidermy. </p><p>Just to put his mind at ease, he opened the door with the lift and pull Sherlock had described, sighing with relief when it worked.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Greg couldn’t sleep. Sherlock had been <em> extremely </em>incorrect about what this room would look like in the dark. The moonlight, and the light from some sort of motion-sensor flood that kept clicking on along the lane to the house, was plenty to throw into shadow all sorts of weird, monstrous shapes. It was unsettling. He was a grown man, of course, and not at all terrified of a few stuffed sparrows and rodents (and one hawk, and what Greg was fairly sure was a badger). But, being unsettled didn’t lend itself well to avoidance. </p><p>Greg had become rather skilled at avoiding thinking about the last several months - if he was honest, the last two years at least - of his life. Rebecca, Beccs, was gone. For real, he thought, this time. There had been a rough spot just before this time last year, when she’d gone to her sister’s in Dorset for a month, ‘to get her head on straight.’ Greg wondered now who in Dorset Beccs had been fucking. </p><p>Most recently, she’d been fucking the husband of the nurse at the school where she worked. </p><p>What a mess. </p><p>Greg barely knew any of those people - which Beccs had pointed out long ago as one of their problems - so the embarrassment of it all wasn’t as immediate as it could have been. He knew that really he should be feeling more sadness than embarrassment, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Things had been bad for a long time, and he was fairly sure he’d been lied to a lot more than he could ever know. </p><p>It was good, that it had ended. Even if it was humiliating. </p><p>Greg sighed and tossed in bed, punching at the pillow under him. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to consider the fact that he and Beccs hadn’t so much as kissed since summer, anyway. How he couldn’t remember what it was like to feel connected to her. To <em> anyone. </em>He had wished, back when they agreed to try working through the problems, and since he moved out of the house in August, that the first split had stuck. It would’ve been cleaner. Easier to explain. </p><p>He sat up. This was ridiculous. He was pretending to be Sherlock Holmes’ gay lover for Christmas. What did it matter if his wife cheated and they were getting a divorce? That was a tale as old as time, and this… this was Greg’s life, really. A series of absurd events and leaps of faith. He’d joined the police on a whim, gone to work in serious crimes because a sergeant he admired suggested it over pints one night, more or less dared him to do it. He’d met Rebecca and they’d been married three months later. Everyone had been convinced it was a shotgun wedding, but no, that was just how Greg did things. </p><p>He could have said no to Sherlock, but… This was more interesting than any other plans he would’ve made in London, so Greg had said yes. </p><p>It was time to stop dwelling on Rebecca. It was time to move on. Or at least admit that he wanted to move on. </p><p>But first, he needed to eat something. Maybe Sherlock could live on next to nothing, but actually Greg was starving, and all this lying around thinking and staring at creepy taxidermy shadows had only made it worse. He dug his mobile out from the side pocket of his duffle bag to check the time. Two in the morning.</p><p>Well, maybe while Greg tiptoed around trying to forage for a snack, he could go disturb Sherlock’s slumber. He was sure the idiot had collapsed on the sofa after he was finished with whatever mad thing he had gone off to do. It would serve him right, just for being such a dick all the time, if Greg made him sit up and listen to every pathetic thought that entered Greg’s head. Or maybe just force him to explain the origin of every single animal in that weird bedroom. Greg might be here on a favor, but there was no rule stating he couldn’t use the threat of taking away potential future cases if Sherlock didn’t humor him. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The house was old, and so the floors were creaky. Greg had flashbacks to childhood, when he’d memorized every loud bit of floor between his room and the bottom of the stairs, where he could watch late night TV through the doorway to the lounge. </p><p>He made it past Mummy and Daddy’s room (he still couldn’t deal with that, though could he really picture Sherlock calling them Mum and Dad? Mama and Papa Holmes? No.) and down the stairs without incident. He swung into the lounge, lit only by the twinkling tree, expecting to find Sherlock in his usual mummy pose on the squashy sofa there, but the room was empty save for a snoozing fat cat Greg hadn’t seen when they first arrived. He would need to investigate that later. God, if Violet Holmes had plopped the cat on top of that tartan blanket, Greg might never have left the armchair, which was a preferable sleeping spot to the house of the dead upstairs. </p><p>The light was on in the kitchen. Maybe Sherlock was there, consuming actual nutrition for once. Greg moved on tip-toe, hoping he might startle him, and the closer he got, the better he could hear the quiet sounds of someone clinking dishes and moving about. And, if he leaned just a little bit sideways, he could see the lanky shadow along the far wall.</p><p>
  <em> Bingo.  </em>
</p><p>Greg hovered by the doorway, holding his breath and trying not to laugh, then counted himself down from five before he made his attack. </p><p>“OI!” He shouted. </p><p>And the man in the kitchen who was very much not Sherlock did not startle so much as he froze, facing away toward the kettle boiling along on the stovetop. </p><p>Greg’s breath left him all at once, and the man - clad in the slightly disheveled remains of a suit, hand poised to reach for a box of tea - stood very still. </p><p>“Christ,” Greg gasped, gathering his wits abruptly. “Jesus Christ, you’re not Sherlock, I—” </p><p>The man sagged as if his strings had been cut, his hands dropping to the worktop to hold him up. “No,” said a low, furious voice. “I most certainly am not.” He turned. “Who, exactly, are—” </p><p>Greg bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. “I’m—”</p><p>“Inspector Lestrade.”</p><p>Greg blinked. “Um—  I—  How did you—” </p><p>“He actually convinced you to do it,” said the man. “I must confess, that surprises me.” </p><p>“Sorry,” Greg managed to say. “Sorry, who are you?”</p><p>“I might apologize for my rudeness,” he said, wry, “but you <em> did </em>just attempt to assault me in my own parents’ home.” </p><p>Greg reacted with indignance before his mind caught up to things. “<em> Assault! </em> No, I was just—  your parents? Oh, <em> fuck, </em>you’re the brother.”</p><p>Mycroft Holmes huffed, a tiny little laugh, and did not roll his eyes, though his very posture seemed to communicate an <em> epic </em>eye roll. “I don’t believe we’ve met in person,” he said. “But we have spoken a time or two.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Greg said, stepping nervously out of the doorway with his hand outstretched. “I’m so sorry, I thought Sherlock would be in here, and I was attempting to—  That is… you know, since we’re… um… together. It was a… sex..y...a <em> sexy thing.” </em>He winced. “Shit.”</p><p>Mycroft shook his hand. “I am aware of the ruse, Inspector,” he said. “I would have deduced it in no time at all, and Sherlock hoped to head me off at the pass, so to speak, in order to keep me from calling you both out in front of our parents.”</p><p>Greg felt relief like a wave. “Oh,” he said on a breath out. “Christ, that’s… thank god, I really don’t think I’m—  I’m a <em> terrible </em> actor, and it was idiotic of me to agree to this. I don’t know what I was thinking.”</p><p>Mycroft turned back to the stove, but Greg though he saw a little twitch of the lips as he did. “Tea, Inspector?”</p><p>“Yes,” Greg said gratefully. “And please call me Greg. Also, I’m famished and I was a little nervous about digging round your parents’ cupboards, so if you could point me to something…” </p><p>“Biscuit jar,” Mycroft said. “Open the cupboard beside the refrigerator, second self down, all the way to the left.”</p><p>“Bless you,” Greg murmured, and made a beeline for it. </p><p>Soon there were two steaming mugs on the table along with an open jar of lemon biscuits. Mycroft loosened and removed his tie, draping it over a suit jacket already slung across the back of a kitchen chair. Rolling up his sleeves in a series of deft movements, he moved to the fridge. “If I know my father,” he murmured to himself, “there’s some variety of very decent cheese hidden behind the jam jars— ah, eureka.”</p><p>Greg shuffled into the chair across from the one occupied by a gorgeously tailored suit jacket, and watched as a triangle of cheese appeared in Mycroft’s hand. </p><p>“Crackers?”</p><p>“Behind where the biscuits were kept,” said Mycroft, grabbing those next. “I must admit I skipped supper tonight, trying to work my way through enough paperwork to get me the next few days off.” </p><p>“Well I know that song and dance,” Greg murmured, lifting his mug to his mouth and blowing across the surface of his tea. </p><p>Mycroft sat down and arranged the cheese and crackers, along with a cheese knife produced from somewhere, then began slicing off perfect little slabs of it and arranging those on top of crackers. </p><p>“Very nice presentation.” Greg said when he was handed a cracker with a slice of cheese placed precisely in the center of it. </p><p>“Well, culinary design is my life,” said Sherlock’s brother with a quirk of the eyebrow which— </p><p>
  <em> Ah, fuck.  </em>
</p><p>It was the combination of good tailoring, slightly disheveled hair (a little ginger, hm, that’s interesting), subtle humor, and really good cheese. Just a completely devastating combination of things, really. </p><p><em> He’s sort of cute, </em> Greg thought, biting down on the cracker so he wouldn’t sigh out loud. <em> Shit, shit, shit.  </em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><h2>2.</h2><p> </p><p>Mycroft needed to go to bed. The correct thing would be to excuse himself, thank Greg Lestrade for the company, and take himself to his uncomfortably well-preserved childhood bedroom in order to go to sleep. </p><p>But it turned out that Greg Lestrade was far more handsome in person than he was in his ID photo, all Mycroft had seen of him so far. </p><p>Mycroft’s newest assistant - fifth in what had begun to seem like a forever-revolving door of incompetents and sycophants - appeared to have been astute in her assessment of Lestrade’s background. </p><p>“I wouldn’t advise approaching this one,” she’d said, reviewing the file after Sherlock ‘graduated’ rehab and made a beeline for the man’s office at NSY. “You say you have spoken to him?”</p><p>“Once,” Mycroft had confirmed. “He called me about the overdose.” </p><p>“And since?”</p><p>“Once more, to ask how Sherlock was faring without the watchful eye of the rehabilitation center staff. He told me he wasn’t a spy but that if I gave him a phone number at which to reach me, he would let me know if he thought Sherlock needed my help.”</p><p>“Hm.” Anthea had nodded to herself. “Then definitely don’t. He won’t like bribery. He’ll react poorly to anything heavy-handed. I’m surprised you haven’t already tried either or both methods by now.”</p><p>Mycroft had sighed. “I’ve been busy.”</p><p>But the truth was, Anthea was right and Mycroft knew it. His instinct had been the same when Sherlock first began pestering the Detective Inspector four years ago. Perhaps Anthea would last longer than his previous assistants. </p><p>Now, he had only confirmed their suspicions: Greg Lestrade was a good person. Rather moral, and firm in his values, which seemed self-determined and not based in any religion or particular belief system. He was affable and aggressively normal on his surface. But then, no one normal ever voluntarily took up with a Holmes the way Greg had taken up with Sherlock. </p><p>“He seems to be doing alright,” Greg said quietly, interrupting Mycroft’s thoughts. </p><p>He glanced up from the bottom of his empty teacup. “My apologies, I was a bit lost in thought.”</p><p>“You worry about Sherlock.”</p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>“Well, I think he’s doing well.” Greg shrugged. “You know how he is, I’m sure. Can’t get a straight answer out of him, but I know what he looks like when he’s using and… I’m almost sure he’s not.”</p><p>“He isn’t,” said  Mycroft. “I… keep my own tabs on him.”</p><p>Greg narrowed his eyes. “He talks about you like you’re both an unremarkable accountant and god himself. Doubt he remembers most of what he said to me in the past but… for a while I was convinced he made you up. Or had hallucinated that the British Government itself was in fact his older brother. Some joke he had with himself about the concept of Big Brother, you know?”</p><p>Mycroft laughed “Oh, dear. Well, I’m afraid he’s oversold my abilities. I have certain resources that do help me keep track of him, yes. But… No, I’m just a minor government official.” </p><p>Greg hummed and pushed the last biscuit across the table. “Well that was such a well delivered lie, I think you deserve this.”</p><p>Mycroft startled into a genuine laugh this time. “Pardon <em> me.” </em></p><p>“Just take it,” Greg said “Do your surveillance methods extend all the way out here? Because I have no idea where your daft brother’s gotten off to. He dropped me in his weird bedroom and fucked off to god knows where. Tell me, did <em> you </em> collect stuffed dead animals as a child, too?”</p><p>Mycroft swallowed his smile and shook his head. “No, no. Chess sets, actually. But I sold most of them to a collector when I graduated university.” </p><p>“You two must have been interesting kids.” Greg’s grin softened the words. “Chess sets, though. Way less creepy.” </p><p>“I suppose. Anyway, I know where Sherlock most likely is - though no, I can’t keep tabs on him here. It’s the only thing he likes about visiting our parents.” Mycroft stood to gather the empty biscuit jar and their tea mugs. “There is a farm down the road. They keep beagles. Sherlock likes to break and enter the kennels. I would wager money that he has fallen asleep in a pile of dogs and will wander back smelling to high heaven but in a much more pleasant mood in the morning.”</p><p>“...beagles.”</p><p>“He loves dogs.”</p><p>From behind him, Mycroft heard Greg’s helpless laugh, more of a giggle stifled by his hand. “Oh, that’s beautiful. He really <em> is </em> just a small child, isn’t he?”</p><p>Mycroft glanced over his shoulder, and was brought up short by the affection in Greg’s face. He turned and leaned back against the worktop. “Yes,” he said. “That is exactly what he is. My brother has yet to grow up. He is as uncontrolled and as breakable as he was when he was seven years old.”</p><p>Greg sobered. “How much do you worry about him?”</p><p>Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek. “Constantly.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for keeping me company,” Greg said once they had set the kitchen to rights and made for the stairs. “It’s a little awkward, being here. I feel bad, really, about lying.”</p><p>Mycroft shook his head, choosing not to tell Greg that it was unlikely the lie would go uncovered. It was unlikely that Mummy didn’t already have her suspicions. It wasn’t worth making the man nervous. Mummy would appreciate that Sherlock had a friend who cared enough to lie for him, shrug her shoulders, and move on. “It was my pleasure,” he said, inwardly wincing at his own overly formal tone. “After you.”</p><p>He refused to admit to himself that he wanted to watch Lestrade walk in front of him up the stairs. And, if he couldn’t avoid admitting it, he refused to feel badly. It had been a long day.</p><p>At the door to Mycroft’s room, there was a pause. </p><p>“See you in the morning,” Greg said, looking for all the world as if he’d like to shove his hands into pockets, but having none in his flannel sleep pants. </p><p>“In the morning,” Mycroft echoed, and then more or less threw himself into his bedroom before he embarrassed himself further. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In the morning, Mycroft waited in the kitchen. It was just barely dawn, the sky a pale gray-blue, everything outside misty and frigid. Sherlock arrived right on schedule, just as Mycroft plated up two pieces of toast. </p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock sighed. “It’s you.”</p><p>“And I have made you breakfast,” said Mycroft mildly, waving a hand toward the toast. “Eat it.”</p><p>“Here it comes,” Sherlock groused, but he did throw himself into a chair at the table. “Get it over with, Mycroft.”</p><p>“I have no complaints,” Mycroft told him, bringing over two mugs of tea and sitting across from Sherlock in the same chair Greg Lestrade had occupied the night before. “You look well, if a bit… furry.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes and crunched obnoxiously into a piece of dry toast. </p><p>“I don’t understand what you think could be gained by this little ‘boyfriend’ ruse.”</p><p>“Mummy thinks I shouldn’t be alone.”</p><p>Mycroft sipped his tea and kept his expression still. “She meant that you should move back here.”</p><p>“I am aware of that, yes.” Sherlock crunched again and then chewed silently, not bothering to say more. </p><p>“Very well, and what happens when she spots the deception?”</p><p>“It’s free holiday entertainment.”</p><p>Mycroft set down his tea. “And Detective Inspector Lestrade? What of him? He’s a good friend to you, he obviously cares about you. You’re using him for entertainment?”</p><p>“Oh, please.” Sherlock pushed away the half-eaten toast. “He owed me a favor, and he’s <em> Lestrade. </em> He loves ridiculous things. He gets a kick out of it. You should see the ex-wife - a <em> complete </em> disaster. Of course he acted surprised after the first infidelity - that he knew of - but he knew, really, what she was. Ridiculous. He likes messy. <em> I’m </em> messy. This is messy. It’s <em> fun.” </em>Sherlock shrugged. “So there you have it.” </p><p>“I think you have rather over-simplified his personality.”</p><p>“And how would you know?” Sherlock paused, then released an exasperated sigh. “How did you manage to speak to him already? We arrived late, he was <em> asleep—”  </em></p><p>“Insomnia,” Mycroft said, bored. “We chatted. He’s a genuine person, Sherlock, and you can’t treat genuine people who can be useful to you the way that you tend to—”</p><p>“Lestrade and I get along just fine.” Sherlock’s eyes darted over Mycroft’s face before he wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, that’s disgusting, you find him <em> attractive.” </em></p><p>“He’s an attractive man,” Mycroft stated with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t <em> you </em> agree?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock replied, “but it’s <em> Lestrade. </em> And you’re <em> you. </em>You stay away from my policeman, Mycroft, or you’ll ruin everything.”</p><p>“I’m not planning to do <em> anything </em> with him, Sherlock, and he is not <em> your policeman. </em>He’s a D.I., and he has put his neck out for you many times when you almost certainly did not deserve it. It might behoove you to have a little consideration for him.”</p><p>“He’s getting a divorce,” Sherlock said with a dismissive shrug as he rose from the table. “It was this or sitting on his own in the fishy flatshare where he’s been living since he dumped the disaster. And just so you know, Lestrade doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. I should know, he’s bodily thrown me out of crime scenes more than once. <em> And </em>refused to serve as a reference on the lease for my flat. This is a simple exchange of favors, and no one needs you butting in with your big nose and your—” </p><p>“Well, look who the cat dragged in!”</p><p>Mycroft paused, feeling a touch guilty, as if he’d been caught gossiping. But, judging by Lestrade’s expression and the ease in his shoulders as he entered the kitchen, he hadn’t heard their conversation. </p><p>“Lestrade,” Sherlock intoned. “I trust your evening was not too insufferable. Apologies, it was not my intention to subject you to the most boring man in all of Britain in the middle of the night.”</p><p>Moving toward the kettle, Greg delivered a casual smack to Sherlock’s head as he passed. “You’re a dick, and your bedroom is creepy. <em> And </em> you reek, go shower before your mum wakes up and remembers her son is an animal, poor woman.”</p><p>Mycroft watched this, and Sherlock’s huffy exit from the kitchen, with no small amount of amusement. </p><p>“No one ever speaks to him that way,” Mycroft told Greg. “It’s good that you do. It’s… healthy for him.”</p><p>Greg snorted, turning around with his tea in hand. “Well, good, I guess.” He took Sherlock’s place at the table with a sigh. He grinned in an unfairly attractive manner over the rim of his mug. “We really must stop meeting like this,” he joked. </p><p>Mycroft swallowed his heart back down his throat and told himself to laugh, to sound normal and perfectly nonchalant as he did. </p><p>Above them, the floors creaked. </p><p>“My parents,” Mycroft said. “Brace yourself; my mother is utterly militaristic about Christmas Eve dinner. We’re all going to be pressed into service.”</p><p>“Fantastic,” said Greg, only smiling wider. “I’m handy in the kitchen.”</p><p><em> I’ll just bet, </em> Mycroft thought, and then hid his face in his tea, utterly ashamed of himself. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Mummy muttered next to Mycroft’s ear that afternoon, handing him a freshly scrubbed potato to peel. </p><p>Mycroft couldn’t help the double take. “Sorry—  what?” He resisted the urge to protect his head and neck by bringing up one shoulder. </p><p>Her eyes were intense, but they always were. It was the low danger of her tone of voice that had activated Mycroft’s fight or flight instinct. Her eyes narrowed. “I said, I <em> know. </em>I’m no fool, Mycroft, and Sherlock is no romantic, which that man he brought here most certainly is.”</p><p>Mycroft flicked a glance out the window over the kitchen sink. In the back garden, Greg Lestrade and Siger Holmes stood over the unassembled skeleton of a smoker. For whatever reason, Mycroft’s father had become hell-bent on smoking an entire goose for Christmas lunch. The unfortunate bird in question would need to be left in overnight, and no one had possessed the foresight to put the smoker together earlier. </p><p>“I’m not going to let Sherlock know that I know,” said Mummy. “Mostly I’m interested in seeing how far he’ll take it - if he even bothers to pay a lick of attention to the poor man. But I also think… well, it’s nice he has a friend, isn’t it?”</p><p>Mycroft attempted to keep his utter lack of surprise at this attitude from showing on his face, and kept his eyes on his hands, where he removed skin from potatoes on autopilot. “Yes, it is very nice.”</p><p>Mummy looked out into the garden. “Lord help us. Thank goodness I’m doing a ham for tonight, or we’d starve. I have my doubts about that bird for tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The entire house smelled a bit like burnt hickory, but between Greg and Siger, the smoker had been wrestled into submission. Between Mycroft and Violet, so had Christmas Eve dinner. Of course, once the food had been placed on the table, and the smokier members of the party changed clothes and washed up, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. </p><p>“Daft bastard spent all day <em> not helping </em>and going on and on about a serial killer who grilled his victims,” Greg told Mycroft under his breath while they set the table. “I barely escaped with my appetite intact.”</p><p>Mycroft bit back a laugh. “Oh, dear,” he said. “You realize with his mind, it would have been nothing for him to reverse engineer that device? Perhaps you should have used your role as boyfriend to sweet talk him into assisting.”</p><p>“I do realize that,” Greg replied. “But your dad’s too nice, I couldn’t let Sherlock break his heart like that. He was so sure he could handle it.”</p><p>Mycroft found himself momentarily frozen, his hand pausing on the napkin he had just laid. “That’s… very kind.”</p><p>Greg shrugged. “Your parents have been lovely. Your mum, though. She knows, doesn't she?”</p><p>Mycroft blew out a breath. “I… couldn’t say.”</p><p>“I have suspicions.” Greg placed the last butter knife. “Well, it’ll be fun to torture Sherlock for the next two days, anyway.”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“Where <em> is </em> he, though?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock still hadn’t materialized after dinner, which passed quite pleasantly. Mycroft was somewhat amazed at his parents’ apparent adoration for Lestrade. His father made sense. Siger liked everyone, and Greg seemed to have worked a form of magic through whatever masculine bonding occurred over burning wood chips and a dead goose. But Mummy—  she was well aware that Greg was lying to her, that she was under no obligation to like him for Sherlock’s sake, and yet she seemed to be genuinely smitten. </p><p>Mycroft supposed he couldn’t blame either of them. Greg Lestrade was funny, friendly, polite, and charming, on top of being unfairly handsome. Mummy was making a bit of a production out of asking about the particulars of police work with wide-eyed wonder, and Mycroft couldn’t help but find the competency underlying the simplified stories to be…</p><p>
  <em> Hot. Unbearably so.  </em>
</p><p>Mycroft volunteered to clear the table, needing the excuse to get up and move.</p><p>“Well, someone’s going to have to track him down,” Daddy said eventually. “If he gets caught in Tom Merrill’s dog pens again, I’ll never hear the end of it.”</p><p>Greg visibly held back a laugh. “Well, I don’t really… know the area. What’s a good place to start looking?”</p><p>“Mycroft knows all of Sherlock’s little boltholes,” said Mummy, bustling by with a towel slung over her shoulder. “It’s already dark, and it’s frigid out there. You boys go see if you can rustle him up. Take a torch. And remember the buddy system. We’ll have cake when you get back.”</p><p>There was no room for argument. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“How do people live in the country?” Greg wondered as they set off down the lane, having just found the garden shed and the greenhouse empty. “Your parents seem to like it, but I can’t imagine Sherlock managing out here. We’ve only just met, but you strike me as the London type, as well.”</p><p>“I am,” said Mycroft, gently steering Greg away from a frozen puddle in the dark, a hand on his elbow. “My parents don’t particularly love country life, either. They travel rather a lot, and when I was small we spent quite a lot of time in London. My mother was still teaching at that time.”</p><p>“Teaching?”</p><p>“Mm. At UCL. Mathematics.” Mycroft nudged Greg toward the road that ran behind the Merrill kennels. “She left academia when Sherlock was very small, and we moved to the country.”</p><p>“So you mostly grew up here?”</p><p>“Not here,” Mycroft said. “Truth be told, I was off at boarding school when my parents bought this place, and I never did live here full-time.”</p><p>“Boarding school.” </p><p>Mycroft looked over in the darkness to watch the outline of Greg’s profile nodding. </p><p>“I always figured,” he continued. “Sherlock must have been miserable there. Were you?”</p><p>Mycroft blinked as Greg turned his attention to him. “Me?”</p><p>“Yeah, I mean… you must be as smart as Sherlock. Maybe smarter, since you actually seem normal and well-adjusted. But you know… Sherlock, he doesn't know how to be around people. That must have been hard away from home, with all those other boys around. I bet it was a bit of a shark tank. Did you like it?”</p><p>“No,” Mycroft said after a moment. “No, I did not. And you’re right, it was awful for Sherlock. Our parents let him finish with tutors at home, actually, after the third school requested that he not return for another term.”</p><p>Greg laughed, quiet and fond. “That sounds about right. What didn’t you like about it?”</p><p>“Well…” Mycroft attempted to think of a better way to word it, and failed. “You’re right, that Sherlock and I are of similar levels of intelligence. I suppose you’re also correct that I am better equipped than he for social situations. I haven’t experienced the overwhelm that Sherlock has. But it can be… frustrating. Sherlock never bothered hiding his intelligence or his irritation with others who couldn’t hope to match it. I, on the other hand, responded to the pressure to fit in. To fly under the radar until it was advantageous not to.”</p><p>“Sounds exhausting.”</p><p>Mycroft drew to a stop. “It was,” he said simply. “We’ll need to climb over this fence.”</p><p>Greg’s eyebrows flew up, his features just barely visible in the light of the torch pointed away from them at the ground. “Really?”</p><p>“There is no gate on this side of the property. Do you see that outbuilding? The one with the lights at the corners?”</p><p>Greg’s eyes followed Mycroft’s pointed finger. “Yeah.”</p><p>“That is the kennel building. We’ll need to cross this field, and then see if the window with the broken lock still, in fact, has a broken lock. And if it does, one of us will need to climb through it to check for Sherlock. Likely me, as I’m taller and have narrower shoulders.”</p><p>“Breaking and entering, you mean.”</p><p>“Well.” Mycroft shrugged. “Of course.”</p><p>“I’m a cop, Mycroft.”</p><p>“And I’m… in government. We’re both a bit outside of our wheelhouse, don’t you think?”</p><p>Greg’s other eyebrow joined the first and a grin slowly began to take shape. “Alright,” he said after a moment, one hand rubbing over his stubbled jaw in thought. “But turn out the torch, or we’ll be seen before we even get close. Your dad doesn't need to hear it from Tom Merrill, you know.”</p><p>Mycroft flicked off the torch instantly, grateful for the dark to hide his flush. “Of course he doesn't,” he said, pretending not to be as helplessly charmed as he had been for the entire day. </p><p>“You gonna be alright climbing over in those nice trousers?”</p><p>Mycroft surprised himself by reaching out and giving Greg’s shoulder a light shove. “Just. Go.”</p><p>Greg’s laugh made it all feel like a game. Which, considering how unlikely it was that Sherlock would be found if he didn’t wish to be… it almost was. </p><p>Mycroft braced his hands on the top rail of the wooden fence, and heaved himself over. </p><p> </p><h1>3.</h1><p> </p><p>Greg wasn’t staring at Sherlock’s brother’s arse. </p><p>He wasn’t. <em> Not really. </em>It wasn’t like he had much choice, standing just slightly beneath the unlocked window to the kennels, and Mycroft halfway through it. </p><p>“Don’t get stuck there,” Greg warned him, not for the first time. “Seriously.”</p><p>Mycroft snorted, unimpressed. “I’m fine. Sherlock isn’t here, though.”</p><p>“Damn.”</p><p>“I need to get down,” he said. “If the dogs hear or smell me, they’ll go mad and then Merrill will be out here toting a shotgun.”</p><p>“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “C’mon, get out of there. I’m spotting you.”</p><p>Mycroft levered himself back out, hopping down to the ground with a grunt and a satisfied huff. “I haven’t done that since I was twenty,” he said. “Good to know I still have the upper body strength to manage it.”</p><p>“He’s done this a lot, then?”</p><p>“Even when he was twelve,” Mycroft confirmed. </p><p>“So where do we go next?” Greg jogged the flashlight against his hip, tapping it while he thought. “What if we don’t find him?”</p><p>“Well,” said Mycroft. “As far as I know he has no means of acquiring cocaine out here, on Christmas Eve especially. So it’s likely he will simply show up tomorrow, hair full of brambles and new soil samples in his pockets.”</p><p>Greg huffed. “Should we just give up now and let him do as he will?”</p><p>Mycroft shot him a smile. “Now you’re cottoning on. We’ll just check the barn here. Sometimes he likes to visit horses.”</p><p>Greg hadn’t expected to feel so warmly toward Sherlock Holmes in the course of his duties as sham boyfriend, but here he was, feeling a tug at his heartstrings as he followed Mycroft toward another distant light on another building - the barn. </p><p>“We’re going to step in horse manure, aren’t we?” Greg asked after a moment of silent trudging. “In the dark like this. Could be everywhere.”</p><p>Mycroft laughed. “The pasture where Merrill turns out the mares is on the other side of the barn. He keeps cows on the west side of the property. Anything is possible but we might make it through unscathed. Besides, it’s only shit.”</p><p>Greg barked a laugh then covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, god, don’t be funny or shocking and make me laugh, I’ll get us arrested.”</p><p>“I assure you, we’re not getting arrested tonight.”</p><p>As they drew close to the barn and the light over the doors, Greg got the chance to have a good look at Mycroft Holmes. His hair had gone a bit wild in the process of climbing through windows and walking in the breeze, and his cheeks were extremely pink. He looked over, catching Greg looking, and quirked an eyebrow. </p><p>“Something on my face?”</p><p>“No,” Greg said. “You’re great. I mean. Good. Your face is good—  It’s. There’s nothing on your face, let’s just go in the barn, I’m freezing and so is my brain, apparently.”</p><p>Mycroft closed his mouth deliberately and let his other eyebrow rise in amusement. “After you, Inspector.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, would you look at that,” Greg murmured quietly. “A baby horse.”</p><p>“A foal,” Mycroft corrected with amusement. “Yes.” </p><p>“She’s so tiny! Look at her mum! I can’t believe they get that big!” </p><p>“That is a male foal, but yes. It is astonishing.”</p><p>“I never spent much time around animals,” Greg mused, leaning his elbows against the stall door and watching the little horse tip a little closer into its mother’s side. “But I always thought I’d like them, you know? I like cats and dogs. An old flatmate of mine had a rabbit, and she was the sweetest thing you ever met. But <em> horses. </em> Maybe even cows. I wondered if I’d want to cuddle one the way you do a cat.”</p><p>“And?” Mycroft spoke from somewhat near, his presence a solid sensation at Greg’s back. “Do you want to cuddle the baby horse?”</p><p>Greg nodded, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “The mum, too, to be honest. Sweet things.”</p><p>Mycroft took a step back from him, letting cool air brush against Greg’s back. </p><p>Greg glanced over his shoulder. “Sherlock isn’t here.” </p><p>“No,” said Mycroft, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his fancy wool coat. He cast his eyes up over the barn rafters, as if Sherlock, nearing the age of thirty two, had scaled a support column and decided to lounge up there with the owls. “I rather think he’s decided to stay gone until tomorrow. He won’t pass up the chance to cheat at Christmas Crackers.”</p><p>Greg snorted. “How do you cheat at yanking on a cracker?”</p><p>“It’s in the twist of the wrist,” said Mycroft. “I assure you, it is possible.”</p><p>“You Holmeses,” Greg said, aware he sounded fond, not just amused. “A class unto yourself.”</p><p>“I’m afraid we can’t help ourselves.”</p><p>“Hey, it’s not a complaint.” Greg gave Mycroft’s foot a nudge with his own. “Sherlock, at least, has kept things interesting for me.” </p><p>“A kind way of putting it.”</p><p>“No,” Greg said, making for the barn door. “It’s just true. Holmeses; I like them.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The walk back to the Holmes house was quiet and cold. Greg found himself walking nearly pressed to Mycroft’s shoulder, the chill seeping down his coat collar and up his trouser legs making him lean into whatever heat and protection he could. </p><p>Well. That, and Mycroft Holmes smelled bloody fantastic. </p><p>
  <em> I’m screwed. What if the parents notice? Then I’ll be the arsehole who tried to cheat on their baby with his older brother. Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.  </em>
</p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>Greg fought his instinct to startle, not so much at the fact that Mycroft had spoken, but at the tone of his voice, all low and…</p><p>
  <em> Get it together, you tosser.  </em>
</p><p>“Fine, why?”</p><p>“You’re shivering.”</p><p>“This coat was a last minute purchase after your brother ruined my decent one,” Greg said with a huff, his breath fogging out in front of him. “Threw it on a wastebasket fire, which he started.”</p><p>“Inspector—”</p><p>“Greg.”</p><p><em> “Greg,” </em>Mycroft said, then paused. “You… Next time, you should contact me. I’ll take money from Sherlock’s account to reimburse you.”</p><p>Greg laughed. “If he ruins this coat, I’m throwing him in the Thames.”</p><p>“I would like to replace this coat, regardless. You should have one of equal or better to quality than the one you lost. Also - I have to ask, what on Earth would possess you to agree to help such a horrendously destructive arse as my younger brother? He burns your coat, you pretend to be in love with him? Are you a masochist, Greg?”</p><p>“Maybe,” Greg joked. </p><p>“Or…” Mycroft hesitated. “Is it… not an act? Not pretending?”</p><p>It took him a moment to understand the implication. When the penny dropped, Greg had to stop walking and laugh, bent forward with his hands on his knees. </p><p>“It’s a valid question,” Mycroft sniffed. </p><p>Greg looked up at him, grinning. “It is <em> not.” </em></p><p>“Because you are heterosexual.”</p><p>Greg laughed. “Nope.” </p><p>“Sherlock can be charming,” Mycroft insisted, skimming right past that without so much as a pause. </p><p>Greg felt oddly disappointed. “Not with me, he can’t.”</p><p>“He has been described as <em> disarming—” </em></p><p>“Mycroft,” Greg said, interrupting firmly. “I have zero below the belt feelings for your awful brother. I have no romantic, warm and fuzzy ones for him, either.” He straightened. “Come on. We’re almost there. I’m frozen solid and could use another dram by the fire if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“...of course,” said Mycroft, and moved to follow. “Yes, that sounds good.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Greg sat in the armchair across from Mycroft’s, which had been dragged over from beside a basket of knitting, and thought about how easy it would be to put his feet in the man’s lap from here. </p><p>It would be a silly thought if he were drunk. Too bad he’d just taken his first sip. That made it a very serious thought. Greg had a crush. And, knowing himself fairly well, Greg knew it would now consume his mind for the remainder of his time in this house. </p><p><em> Oh, well, </em> he thought. <em> It wouldn’t be me if it weren’t just a little hopeless.  </em></p><p>Mycroft let out a sigh as he sank into his seat. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and getting redder as the wood stove rapidly warmed them up. “I will say this for my parents,” he said, “Mummy has excellent taste in scotch, and Daddy is an absolute hedonist. The furniture is always comfortable.”</p><p>Greg couldn’t help but giggle into his glass. “Sorry,” he managed. “I just can’t get over that the two of you call them that.”</p><p>Mycroft’s lips twisted into a self deprecating little smile, and he averted his eyes to the fire as he wiped it away with his hand. “I know,” he said. “But when I tried to start calling her Mother when I was ten, she forbade it. As for my father? It fits him, soft-hearted as he is.”</p><p>“Is he?”</p><p>“Oh, yes.” Mycroft glanced back up at Greg. “He’s the nice one, didn’t you notice?”</p><p>Greg took a sip of whiskey, hoping it would occupy his mouth. It didn’t. “You’re nice.” </p><p>Mycroft’s eyebrows flicked up. “You think so, do you?”</p><p>“Mmhmm.” Greg took a heavy swallow of his drink and bit the side of his tongue to keep from saying more. </p><p>“Well, you can be forgiven for the misconception. We’ve only just met.” </p><p>Greg shrugged. “I dunno that it’s a misconception. We’ll see.”</p><p>“Will we?”</p><p>Greg knew that what <em> he </em>was doing was flirting as he smirked and finished the last bit of whiskey in his glass. “Another?”</p><p>What he wasn’t sure of was Mycroft. Was that eyebrow quirk flirty? Were his eyes interested? </p><p>Mycroft held out his own empty tumbler. “It is the holidays, after all.”</p><p>Their fingers brushed as Greg took it. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It took just one more measure of whiskey to melt Greg’s joints into the cushions under him. By the time the fire burned down to embers, he knew he had been growing more and more expansive by the moment, his hands doing half the talking for him, gesturing with the tumbler and raking through his hair when he laughed. It occurred to him he probably looked a mess. </p><p>But then, objectively, so did Mycroft. No one could do a hike halfway across Sussex and back, and get pleasantly drunk after, without coming out the other side just a bit ruffled. </p><p>Greg found himself thinking that the way Mycroft’s reddish brown hair stuck up in the back from repeated, nervous application of his fingers had disurbed it, was sort of cute, really. </p><p>“God, I need to go to sleep,” Greg said once that thought made it past his filter and to the front of his brain. “Sorry, I think I’m hitting a wall.”</p><p>“Not at all,” Mycroft murmured. “I’m also tired.”</p><p>“I’m a bit worried about Sherlock, though.”</p><p>“Don’t be,” said Mycroft. “He does this.”</p><p>“I know.” Greg found himself unwilling to move just yet, and Mycroft didn’t seem in a hurry either. Greg squinted across the short space between them. “Did <em> you </em> ever do anything like that? Disappearing out into the fields?”</p><p>Mycroft simply smiled. “If I did, it would be a secret.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I have a reputation to maintain.” Mycroft ran his finger over the rim of his glass, held in his cupped hand on top of his knee. “It’s best if people believe I sprung into being, already wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase. It works in my favor.”</p><p>Greg took in Mycroft’s current state of dress - wool trousers and a crisp button-down with a tweed waistcoat and an open collar - and quirked an eyebrow. “Are you normally in a three-piece suit?”</p><p>“Almost exclusively.”</p><p>“You never partake in casual Friday? Really?”</p><p>Mycroft chuckled. <em> “Casual Friday,” </em> he echoed. “God save me from such things. <em> No. </em>I appreciate the ritual of dressing in a particular way for work, for one. Were I to break with habit and arrive in… what exactly would casual Friday entail?”</p><p>Greg bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to grin too hard. “Well, what you’re wearing now - minus the socked feet, of course, and plus the very nice brogues you nearly ruined traipsing around after your brother - that would work just fine.” He decided to risk a little sass, fueled by warmth and alcohol. <em> “More </em> than fine, in my opinion,” he added, letting his eyes fall lidded. </p><p>Mycroft’s cheeks went satisfyingly pinker. “Well,” he said after a pause. “In the event that I decide to shock my colleagues… I will be sure to consult you before dressing.”</p><p>“Sure,” Greg agreed easily, and let one eyebrow quirk up. “You do that.” Shaking himself, he leaned up out of his slump and started to haul himself up out of the chair. “Christ, this furniture just <em> swallowed </em>me.”</p><p>Mycroft let out a delayed chuckle and shifted forward, perching on the edge of his own cushion. He held out a hand. “On the count of three?’</p><p>“Please,” said Greg, and reached out to grab the offered hand. <em> I could pull you over here into my lap, </em>he thought. He bit back his smile and said, “Count of three.”</p><p>“One, two,”</p><p>Greg stood as Mycroft did, their clasped hands bringing them up at the same time, free hands going to shoulders for stability. </p><p>“Thanks,” Greg said, knowing that they were standing incredibly close just now. Painfully aware of it. “Actually, thanks for the nice night. It was actually fun, even if we did half freeze our balls off.”</p><p>Mycroft laughed even as his hand slipped slowly - Greg liked to think reluctantly - away from his shoulder. “Speak for yourself,” he said. He moved away and toward the lounge entryway. “Mine were never in danger.”</p><p>Greg snorted at his back. “Your balls, you mean?”</p><p>Mycroft glanced over his shoulder with one Holmesian eyebrow raised. “What else could I mean?”</p><p>“You know you look like your mum <em> and </em>your brother when you do that?”</p><p>Mycroft paused, mouth opening on a retort. </p><p>“Keep it moving, Holmes,” Greg teased. “You’re standing under mistletoe now.” </p><p>Mycroft looked up and Greg wasn’t flattering himself or imagining it - he blushed even more intensely. </p><p>“Go on,” Greg continued, resisting the urge to clear his throat against the sudden rasp in his voice. “Otherwise…”</p><p>The other eyebrow joined the first. For a moment, Greg stood all of one step away from the doorway, from Mycroft, and from the mistletoe. And for a moment, he considered closing the gap. Then, Mycroft took a deliberate step back. </p><p>“After you, Greg,” he said. “Actually, I think I ought to go check that the mudroom door is unlocked for Sherlock. You head up.”</p><p>“Oh,” Greg said, slipping past him and turning backward on the bottom step. He wasn’t imagining this. This zingy thing they had going between them. But he could also see that it required a delicate touch. “You’re sure?”</p><p>Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. Goodnight, Greg.” </p><p>Greg was deliberate about the way he let his gaze shift to and linger on the mistletoe. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Night, Mycroft.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Greg couldn’t sleep after all that. It was too bad he was too old and too polite to have a wank in someone else’s bed in their <em> mum’s </em> house - he could have come up with some epic mental imagery based only on Mycroft Holmes’s reddened cheeks. </p><p>
  <em> Jesus.  </em>
</p><p>In lieu of a mind-clearing orgasm, Greg chose to double down. Whereas he’d lain here last night despairing over the slow, mercifully final, death of his marriage, tonight he was pleased down to his bones to even be <em> capable </em> of a sudden, ill-advised crush. </p><p>Which, there was no denying, he had. A huge, brick-to-the face, cold-bucket-of-water, <em> crush. </em> On Sherlock Holmes’ older brother, the wealthy, ambiguously powerful voice on the other end of the phone. Greg covered his face with both hands and let loose a hysterical giggle. <em> Only you, </em> he told himself. <em> Fucking hell.  </em></p><p>Greg scrubbed his palms over his cheeks and stared at the creepy shadow patterns on the ceiling, wondering in the back of his mind what each one could be attached to. An eagle’s wing, a badger’s head, the tail of a squirrel? But his mind wandered back around to the concept of Mycroft Holmes in a three piece suit. Last night, when Greg ran into him in the kitchen, there had been suit elements in play, but Greg had been consumed first by embarrassment and then by startled lust to build a picture of what it must have looked like before Mycroft started shedding it.</p><p>Greg shifted. This line of thinking was doing him no favors in his quest not to have a wank in Sherlock Holmes’ childhood bed. </p><p>And of course, it was at that moment that the bedroom door smacked open. Greg startled, just barely keeping himself from clutching the covers to his chest. “Fuck!” he barked. <em> “Sherlock!” </em></p><p>The door clicked shut firmly, blocking out the faint light from the hallway. Sherlock flicked on the bedside lamp instead. Greg hissed and shielded his eyes as they adjusted to the flood of light. </p><p>“For fucksake, Sherlock—” </p><p>“Oh, do calm down,” Sherlock scoffed, not bothering to look at Greg as he shed his coat. “It’ll only be bright for a moment.”</p><p>“Where the hell have you been? Your brother and I were worried.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted and turned around, his visibly filthy hands working at the buttons of his too-tight button down. “Mycroft was not worried about me, and I’m certain you weren’t, either.” Sherlock wrestled his shirt off and threw it to the floor, leaving him in a vest and his fancy black suit trousers, now caked in mud. </p><p>“You look like you wrestled a bear out there,” Greg said, taking in the leaves stuck in Sherlock’s disastrous hair, the bruise on his cheek, and the mud literally <em> everywhere. </em>“What’s the plan now?”</p><p>“I got into a fight,” Sherlock muttered. “But not with a bear.”</p><p>“With a <em> person?’ </em></p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock sneered mockingly. “With a <em> person. </em> I went to the pub, won fifty pounds, and when the man who had lost fifty pounds ran out of money, he bet me that he could, and I quote, <em> kick my arse to kingdom come.” </em></p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And he lost, obviously.” </p><p>Greg snorted. “Obviously.” </p><p>Sherlock stripped efficiently down to his boxers. “Budge over, Lestrade.”</p><p>“Oh,” Greg barked a laugh. “Absolutely not, you’re <em> filthy! </em>This is a twin bed!” </p><p>“It’s a full,” Sherlock corrected with an eye roll. “What’s more, it’s <em> mine. </em>So move. Over. Lestrade.”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Sherlock made as if to physically move Greg himself. Greg rolled, tumbling off the other side of the mattress. </p><p>“Your hands are disgusting!” Greg snatched a pillow off the bed before Sherlock - already climbing under the covers - could touch it. “Sherlock!” </p><p>“Just go back to sleep, Lestrade, I won’t violate your person, I promise.”</p><p>“Ugh!” Greg shuddered. “I didn’t think you <em> would. </em>You know you smell like the floor of a barroom?” </p><p>“Well, at one point I did a headstand on one, so.” Sherlock shrugged and settled back against the remaining pillow, eyes closed. </p><p>“You’re awful.” Greg shook his head. “Just <em> awful. </em>Your hair probably has a mutant strain of the Black Death now, you realize.”</p><p>Sherlock said nothing, and his face did not move from its placid state of feigned sleep. </p><p>Greg sighed and yanked the quilt off the bed, leaving Sherlock with the sheet and duvet. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.” </p><p>“Don’t let Mummy find you there,” Sherlock drawled. “It’ll be awkward.”</p><p>“And you would deserve it,” Greg grumbled. “I’ll tell her you behaved like an utter cad when you finally rolled in from god-knows-where. I’ll tell her I spurned your advances and so you threw me out of bed.”</p><p>“I’m sure she will believe that.”</p><p>Greg rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, you arsehole.”</p><p>“Night, night, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, and yawned. “Get the light on your way out.”</p><p>Greg nearly thrashed him over the head with the pillow - but decided, in the end, not to. Sherlock might steal the pillow back, and Greg wasn’t willing to give it up. He left the light on, and took himself downstairs. At least the sofa would be comfy. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In the morning, Greg woke when a gentle hand shook him by the shoulder. The second thing he registered was the smell of tea, just near his nose. Greg blinked his eyes open. </p><p>“Hello,” Mycroft said quietly. “Merry Christmas.”</p><p>“Hi,” Greg managed, a bit taken aback by the way the morning light lit up Mycroft’s hair and eyelashes, picking out the gingery threads amid the brown. “Merry… Merry Christmas to you, too.”</p><p>“It’s still early.” Mycroft reached over to set something - the fresh mug of tea - on the side table next to the sofa. “I can hide the blanket and pillow before anyone comes downstairs. But first I thought you might like a cup of tea with a little something added in for extra fortitude.” </p><p>Greg let his heavy eyes drift closed just for a second, imagining the luxury of being brought tea spiked with whiskey, practically <em> in bed, </em> on Christmas morning, and squaring it as part of his current reality. “I could kiss you,” he sighed.<br/><br/>When he opened his eyes again, Mycroft Holmes was still crouched there at his side, and his cheeks were pink again. Greg felt himself grin, felt it spread across his face and through his chest. </p><p>“I’ll mind the mistletoe, then,” Mycroft said, just a little hoarsely, and stood. </p><p>“You do that.” </p><p> </p><h1>4.</h1><p> </p><p>Mycroft made it through Christmas day by the skin of his teeth. At that thought, he ran his tongue over said teeth, unused to the amount of sugar he’d consumed since that morning. His mother seemed intent on ruining his efforts on the treadmill, all in the name of Christmas cheer. Mycroft couldn’t blame her; he was powerless in the face of her spiced Victoria sponge. </p><p>Now he was hiding in the kitchen, volunteering as always to get a head start on the dishes so as to avoid the yearly argument over which board game to start with after the Christmas crackers had been exhausted. </p><p>Mycroft normally did this activity with tight shoulders and a countdown in the back of his mind, anticipating the moment he could escape back to London and his own blessedly quiet house for an <em> actually </em> silent night. Not this year. Mycroft could admit to himself that he was mildly drunk - and had been since the night before, thanks to Greg Lestrade and his warm eyes and his cheeky offer of <em> another? </em>After the first cup of fortified tea that very morning, which Greg had wheedled Mycroft into enjoying for himself, there had been another. And then of course wine with Christmas lunch. Mummy had even pulled out champagne from somewhere, claiming it was in celebration of the excellence of the smoked goose - though Mycroft knew she simply liked bubbles. She had made an intentionally embarrassing speech, and urged Mycroft and Sherlock to join her in toasting Daddy and Greg’s culinary accomplishments.</p><p>Greg had flushed beautifully under the attention. </p><p>It had been around then that Mycroft started planning a momentary escape to gather his wits about him. </p><p>It had taken hours to make the excuse, and much of that time was spent sitting thigh-to-thigh with Greg while Sherlock, under Mummy’s insistence, played Christmas carols on the violin with a bored look pasted to his face. </p><p>“I’ve never heard him play like this,” Greg murmured to Mycroft. “He’s always screeching it at me to chase me from the flat when I come to collect him.” </p><p>“He can do much better than this,” Mycroft replied. “When he wants to.”</p><p>Greg snorted. “Story of his life. Contrary bastard.” </p><p>Mycroft was taken once again by the fondness in Greg’s voice and eyes. <em> Someone who likes Sherlock. Or, at the very least, cares if he lives or dies. </em>Mycroft watched Sherlock play and fought his own racing heart into something resembling normal behavior. </p><p>He knew, though, that this was the nail in his coffin. How could he not adore someone who wished to see Sherlock kept safe? </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Brought back to the present, Mycroft turned, elbow deep in sudsy dish water. “Hello.”</p><p>“Your mum knows, doesn't she?”</p><p>“Knows what?” Mycroft hid his smile, turning back to his task. </p><p>Greg tsked. “She <em> knows </em> it’s all fake.” He crossed to lean a hip against the worktop beside the sink. “She knows I’m not really with Sherlock.”</p><p>Mycroft shot him a look. “Of course she knows, Greg. She’s a genius, after all.” </p><p>“Apparently you all are.”</p><p>“Not Daddy.”</p><p>“Oh—” Greg scoffed. “Don’t be a snob like your brother. Your dad’s clearly something special if he’s put up with all of you this long.” </p><p>Mycroft paused, lowering the plate in his hands back into the soapy water. He turned to Greg and searched him for any malice - and found none. “He is,” Mycroft found himself saying. “Special, that is.” </p><p>Greg’s lips twitched into a half smile. “Yeah.” He looked down. “Anyway. Listen…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>Greg glanced up again. “Since I don’t have to risk your mum murdering me with the carving knife…” He took a deep breath and lifted his hand, the one Mycroft hadn’t noticed was tucked partially behind his back, producing the little bundle of mistletoe from the doorway of the lounge. “Just—  hold still a second.”</p><p>Mycroft was too frozen to do anything - to even <em> think - </em>and so he obeyed, watching with wide eyes as Greg raised his arm over them both. </p><p>“Okay,” Greg murmured. </p><p>When did he get so <em> close?  </em></p><p>And then he pressed his lips, soft and warm, to Mycroft’s cheek, right where Mycroft could swear he had instantly blushed hottest. Then he moved away and kissed him again, slightly to the right and a little lower, just shy of the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. With that, he backed away, leaving Mycroft to marvel and attempt to examine the small details his brain had cataloged without his notice: woodsy cologne, minty deodorant, bourbon punch, champagne, stubble, dry lips, a soft inhale against Mycroft’s cheek— </p><p>“Anyway,” Greg said, a bare couple of centimeters from Mycroft’s skin. “Let me know about… that.”</p><p>Mycroft became aware that his hands were still submerged in dishwater as Greg smiled and backed away. He very nearly ran dripping wet fingers over his own cheek in his shock. </p><p>Greg <em> winked at him </em> as he exited the kitchen, leaving Mycroft to wonder what he was meant to do now. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Cluedo was torture, as usual. Mycroft’s father reinstated a ban of it halfway through. He apologized to Greg, grabbing up the half-played board with no preamble and glaring at both of his sons as he did. </p><p><em> “Really,” </em> Siger admonished. “In front of <em> Greg, </em>too.”</p><p>“Oh, please, sir—” Greg waved a hand. “Believe me, I’m quite used to Sherlock and… well. I am unoffended.”</p><p>Siger paused, the game board clutched to his chest. His eyes moved over Greg’s face for a moment and then he sighed. “Well,” he said. “At least I’m not the only besotted fool, now.” And then he disappeared with the Cluedo board, which none of them would see again for the remainder of the evening. </p><p>Sherlock, with his hands folded under his chin, smiled sunnily at Mycroft. “I was going to win,” he said. </p><p>Greg reached over and smacked him. “Oi, don’t carry on.”</p><p>“He wasn’t going to win,” Mycroft snapped, and then bit his tongue. He closed his eyes against the embarrassment. “I mean—”</p><p>Greg laughed and patted him on the knee, causing Mycroft’s eyes to fly open in surprise. “Believe me, I know he wasn’t going to win.”</p><p><em> “Lestrade!” </em> </p><p>Mycroft had never seen Sherlock so betrayed. </p><p>“Not <em> your </em> policeman,” Mycroft muttered, quietly enough that Greg, who had gotten up to retrieve them more drinks from the sideboard, wouldn’t hear. </p><p>Sherlock turned wide eyes on him, taking on a distinct glower. “You are a <em> snake,” </em>he hissed. </p><p>“Be <em> nice,” </em>Greg admonished as he returned with three glasses. “Here—” he shoved one in Sherlock’s hand. “Get drunk or something, you giant, sulking praying mantis.” </p><p>Mycroft hid his laugh in his hand. Greg sat down beside him and stretched an arm over the back of the sofa, behind Mycroft’s shoulders. </p><p>“I hate you both,” Sherlock snapped, then knocked back the drink in one go. “I’m off.” </p><p>“Going to sleep with the beagles again?” Greg drawled. “Starting another bar fight?”</p><p>Mycroft rolled his eyes. The half a black eye Sherlock had been sporting today had escaped no one’s notice. He’d told their mother it was the result of an overzealous goat at the Merrill place, which of course she hadn’t believed for a moment. “Just go to bed, Sherlock.” </p><p>“I will do as I please,” Sherlock intoned, drawn up to his full height and at his haughtiest. “You, Mycroft, are not my keeper.”</p><p>“If only,” Mycroft sighed, but he watched his brother’s back as he swept from the room with no small measure of fondness. “He is my life’s burden,” he said. </p><p>Greg laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “I worry sometimes he might be mine, as well. We can split the weight of his gangly arse.” </p><p>They clinked the rims of their glasses and Mycroft was surprised again at the way their eyes caught on one another, sticking together, unable to look away. </p><p>“Where’re your parents?”</p><p>Mycroft blinked, taking a moment to catch up. Apparently, Greg Lestrade not only induced him to drink and to turn frustratingly red at the slightest provocation, but also to become ever so mildly stupid. “What?”</p><p>“Your mum and dad have disappeared.”</p><p>“Oh—” Mycroft thought for a moment and then winced. “Well, considering Mummy went upstairs with a supposed headache an hour ago, and Daddy likely hid the Cluedo under their bed…”</p><p>Greg’s eyes widened. <em> “Oh.” </em></p><p>“Mm.” Mycroft winced again. “Best not to think of it, and be thankful for the fact that their room is not directly above this one.”</p><p>Greg snorted, then giggled, shoulders lifting as he tried to stifle it. “Oh, god.” </p><p>“When one grows up with them…”</p><p>“You poor thing,” Greg laughed. “Guess it’s nice, though, isn’t it? Still mad for each other this late in the game.”</p><p>“I suppose it is.”</p><p>Greg’s laughter quieted and he toyed for a moment with his drink before finishing the last and leaning forward to set it down on the table. He folded his hands in his lap and directed his next question to his own thumbs. “Did I cross the line, earlier? In the kitchen?” He cleared his throat. “Sorry if I did, I just… um. Never have been able to resist an opportunity like that.”</p><p>“You… didn’t cross any lines, no.” </p><p>Greg glanced up. “You sure?”</p><p>Mycroft swallowed against his own nerves and took a slow breath through his nose. “Very sure,” he said, then set his own glass aside. </p><p>He reached for Greg as Greg came willingly, and between one breath and the next they were kissing, and Mycroft had half pulled the man into his lap. </p><p>The kiss was - hotter than any first kiss had ever been in Mycroft’s recollection. There was no awkward shuffle or nervous adjustment of teeth or noses. There was only pressure, the easy introduction of Greg’s mouth against his, and then a muffled groan when Mycroft, apparently surprising them both, opened to it instantly. Greg’s hands were warm on Mycroft’s cheeks and his hair was soft between Mycroft’s fingers. It seemed perfectly reasonable and in fact necessary to lean back, to pull Greg with him to lie along the length of the sofa. It was natural to bend a leg against the back cushions and encourage Greg to settle between his thighs, the two of them jostling for purchase even while the kiss was only just getting started. </p><p>Mycroft would absolutely, here and now, think nothing of it if Greg then proceeded to strip them both naked. That was how brightly that first kiss burned.</p><p>But, just as that thought landed and sent a somewhat distant wake of panic at his own wantonness, Greg’s mouth gentled against his. He eased back just a little, fingers still framing Mycroft’s burning cheeks. As his lips brushed sweetly against Mycroft’s, ending but not ending the kiss, Greg’s lips curved, an unmistakable grin. Mycroft didn’t need to see it to know it was there, but he could see it all the same when Greg pulled further away and said, “Wow.”</p><p>Mycroft blinked and tried to think of some explanation for his actions. Or the size of the wave of desperate longing that had come over him and then crashed, leading to… this. </p><p>Before he could muster up an apology or perhaps the nerve to simply say <em> nothing, </em>Greg kissed him again, twice in quick succession. </p><p>“I um…” Greg glanced down at the scant space between their chests, seeming to realize that they were pressed together in a way that left no room for misinterpretation. “I—  I was taking my chances, earlier, you know? I didn’t know if you—”</p><p>Mycroft experienced a brief flash of disbelief and spoke before he could stop himself. “Well <em> clearly, </em> Detective, I <em> do.” </em></p><p>Greg’s eyes snapped to his, wide and shocked in the split second before he laughed. “Yeah,” he said as he leaned in, rolling his hips a little as he did and drawing a gasp out of Mycroft that he caught a second later with his lips. “Clearly.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I—” Mycroft gasped, an endless amount of time later. “I don’t think I can—  we shouldn’t—” </p><p>Greg pushed up onto an elbow. It was gratifying to see that there was a tremble in it, his balance shaky. His mouth was bitten red. </p><p>
  <em> Did I…?  </em>
</p><p>Obviously Mycroft had. He blinked through the haze of arousal and skin-drunk pleasure. It dawned on him that his hands were under Greg’s shirt, every point of contact hot and soft. Greg reached and swept Mycroft’s hair, curling over his slightly sweaty forehead, back from his face in a tender gesture that only served to stun Mycroft further. </p><p>“It’s alright,” Greg said. “We should stop. We’re in your parents’ lounge.” </p><p>Mycroft nodded. “Yes.” </p><p>“Alright.” </p><p>But instead they managed to get caught there again, and Mycroft remembered his thought from earlier: <em> As if my eyes get stuck on yours. </em>He pulled Greg back in and kissed him again, and then again, and then again. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Greg panted into Mycroft’s neck. “Seriously, I have to get off you or I’m going to come in my pants in your parents’ bloody lounge and I—  No. Just… no.” </p><p>Mycroft laughed helplessly, feeling himself simply dissolve with it, and watched Greg move with the motion of it. </p><p>“Jesus,” Greg breathed. “It’s not funny, I’m being serious.”</p><p>“I know you are. It is still, in fact, funny.” Mycroft pushed gently with a hand at the center of Greg’s chest. “Sitting up is a good start.” </p><p>They both politely did not look down at the obvioud erections trapped inside clothing - not that Mycroft hadn’t entertained the notion of fixing that for the both of them <em> several </em>times as the minutes had stretched like taffy. He realized that his own shirt was nearly entirely unbuttoned only when Greg began doing it back up for him once he had struggled to a sitting position. </p><p>“Bring many boys home for a secret snog?” Greg asked with a mischievous smirk that Mycroft was tempted to lick off his face. </p><p><em> Good god, </em> he thought, and then sternly told himself to get this under control <em> now.  </em></p><p>“I have never been in the habit,” Mycroft replied. “This is a first for my parents’ house, I can assure you.” </p><p>Greg grinned. “Cool.” He smoothed his hands over Mycroft’s shirt now that it was buttoned. “Well, you look a little less of a mess, now. I’ve messed you up good, sweetheart.”</p><p>Mycroft nearly twitched at the endearment. “Good,” he said. “Cigarette?”</p><p>“Christ, <em> yes.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Outside, the cold air went a long way to calming Mycroft’s unbelievable flush, or at least it felt less like a fire raged across his cheekbones now. </p><p>They stood and smoked and tried not to look at each other. </p><p>“So,” Greg ventured after a moment. “Do you bring many boys home when you’re in London?”</p><p>Mycroft contemplated his cigarette. “Are you angling for an invitation?” </p><p> “Yeah, obviously.” Greg laughed. “Of course I am.” </p><p>The question had been meant as deflection. No, Mycroft did not bring many men home in London. He almost <em> never </em> did. This entire day - the past two days - were anomalous in the extreme. Now, Greg’s eyes had softened as if he could tell, regarding Mycroft in the light from the kitchen window. </p><p>“I’m returning to London in the morning tomorrow,” Mycroft said awkwardly. </p><p>“Yeah.” Greg nodded. “Me too. And Sherlock.” </p><p>“You could… if you wished… that is—” </p><p>“Okay.” </p><p>Mycroft drew a deep breath. “Yes?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah.” Greg tossed his cigarette and stepped forward, back into Mycroft’s space. “As in, I would ditch your awful little brother on the side of the road and drive back with you, if you asked.”</p><p>Mycroft laughed and let Greg’s arms sneak inside his own coat, wrapping their way around his torso. His hands were cold against the skin of Mycroft’s lower back, fingers teasing up under the untucked shirt, but Mycroft would never complain. “I could send him home with my driver,” Mycroft said. “And go back with you.” </p><p>Greg grinned. “Yeah? Wait—  you have a driver?”</p><p>Mycroft shrugged. “Yes. I often work while traveling from one point to another. A driver frees up precious time.” </p><p>“Hmm.” Greg’s lips found their way just under Mycroft’s jaw, pressing sweetly and then nipping suggestively. “You need to have more fun.” </p><p>Mycroft shivered at the breath against his skin and the cool fingers along his spine. “Agreed,” he managed to say, then dipped down for a real kiss. The cold night faded away almost instantly, and Mycroft would have marveled at the psychosomatic sensation of all-over warmth, had he not been otherwise occupied. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They agreed to go inside separately. </p><p>“I’m not risking your brother banging in at all hours trying to crawl in next to me,” Greg had murmured. </p><p>“Don’t sleep in the lounge,” Mycroft said, unable to stop himself. “Come to my room.”</p><p>
  <em> “Oh?” </em>
</p><p>“Just to sleep. There is no way I’m attempting anything else with my mother right down the hall.” </p><p>Greg had chuckled against Mycroft’s lips and said, “Fair enough. You go; I’ll meet you up there in a bit so we don’t wake them traipsing up together.” </p><p>But Mycroft had convinced Greg to go first, needing a moment to collect himself and talk himself down from the inevitable panic over the fact that he had just invited a near-stranger to sleep beside him, when he hadn’t actually slept beside anyone since Uni. </p><p>Greg had gone and Mycroft had been tempted to smoke another cigarette. Instead, he let the cold air fill his lungs and steady his nerves. He thought of the way Greg had looked waking up slowly that morning, utterly unaware that a cat had claimed his legs as her bed, and imagined seeing it across the pillow on Boxing Day. </p><p>That was enough to motivate him back into the house. </p><p>Of course, his mother awaited him in the kitchen, swathed in her fluffy green dressing gown with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. </p><p>“Mummy,” Mycroft said, as if he had every reason to be outdoors by himself on Christmas night. </p><p>“Smoking, Mycroft?”</p><p>He told himself to stay strong in the face of her judgmental eyebrows. “Of course not,” he said smoothly. “Merely getting some air.” </p><p>“With your brother’s boyfriend?”</p><p>Mycroft shook his head, refusing to speak and blow his own cover. “I thought you <em> knew,” </em>he said, a bit more defensively than he’d meant.</p><p>“I <em> do </em>know,” she said, smirking over her teacup. “I know everything. So, good for you, Mycroft. He’s lovely.”</p><p>Mycroft edged his way along the perimeter of the kitchen. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, avoiding any and all eye contact. </p><p><em> For god’s sake, you are forty years old, </em> he berated himself. </p><p>“Goodnight, Mummy.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.” She waved him off over her shoulder. “Goodnight darling. Do try to keep it down.”</p><p>Mycroft fled. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Not too long after that, Mycroft managed not to die of embarrassment in the process of retrieving his sleep clothes from the bedroom in order to take them and change in the bathroom. Greg had laughed at his stiffness and kissed him, kneeling up on the end of Mycroft’s bed and catching him by the arm. </p><p>“Relax,” Greg murmured. “I’ll see you in a minute.” </p><p>And then Mycroft returned from changing and cleaning his teeth, and the lights were mercifully already turned off. He placed a ginger knee on the edge of the mattress. </p><p>“Come on,” Greg said, not visible in the dark, his voice soft and rumbling from somewhere around the pillows. His fingers closed around Mycroft’s wrist and tugged. </p><p>And then, just as easily as it had happened in the lounge, there was kissing. And with the thinner nature of sleep clothes, there was… touching. Rather more of it than there had been before. But, similarly to before, they forced themselves apart in a flurry of breathless laughs and grasping hands. Eventually Greg pinned Mycroft’s wrists to the bed which was actually <em> extremely </em>counterintuitive. </p><p>“Good Christ,” Greg breathed as Mycroft’s hips jerked up and off the mattress as his hands were held down. “Fuck, it’s going to be fun when we get to London tomorrow.” </p><p>Mycroft nodded. “Mm. Let’s leave <em> early.”  </em></p><p>Greg laughed and kissed him once more. “Alright.” He took a breath. “Okay. Maybe I should go sleep on the sofa - I dunno if I can keep my hands off you.” </p><p>“And I’m the one being held down,” Mycroft joked. “Please, don’t go.”</p><p>Greg released his wrists, rubbing gently at them with his fingertips. “I won’t.” He settled in close, one arm snaking over Mycroft’s waist, his head finding its way to Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’m old enough to behave myself. Promise.” </p><p>His hair smelled like wood smoke and cinnamon and oranges. </p><p>“Greg.” </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Merry Christmas.” </p><p>Greg’s lips curved into a smile. Mycroft didn’t need to see it. He could feel it, just there against his chest. </p><p>“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>The End. </strong>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Holidays, lovely friends.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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